


The Holly and the Ivy

by MistressOfMalplaquet



Series: Joy [3]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Christmas, F/F, F/M, Gladys is a bit of a trainwreck, Protective FP Jones II, bughead - Freeform, she's a hot mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-09-28 16:25:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17186381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressOfMalplaquet/pseuds/MistressOfMalplaquet
Summary: Gladys doesn't want anything for Christmas.





	The Holly and the Ivy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Raptorlily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raptorlily/gifts).



Betty sweeps a professional eye over their tiny house. The tree is decorated, wrapped presents piled underneath, stockings hung on the mantel. There are ten different kinds of cookies waiting in various jars and tins. The Christmas turkey is prepped for the weird infrared fryer Veronica gave them the previous year (“Our chef swears by it, B,”) and Jughead’s patented morning pancake mix is ready to go.

“Not bad.” Gladys punctuates the statement with a cough and waves vaguely at the room. “Looks like a magazine display or something.”

“Thanks.” Hiding her surprise – Gladys never gives compliments – Betty smiles brightly. “Do you need anything? Extra towels, maybe another blanket?”

“I’ll tell you what I don’t need, and that’s one of those gifts you got piled up over there. You didn’t get me anything, right?”

“Jughead said that’s what you wanted.” It goes against Betty’s nature not to have a few small presents ready for a houseguest, but apparently Gladys has been stubborn as a stump on the subject of Christmas.

“Yeah, well.” The woman’s whiskey laugh bubbles with irony. “I’ve been a shitty mom and grandma for years, might as well not let the tradition die now. Didn’t get the kids a damn thing.” She turns her back on Betty and heads to Jellybean’s room, where Gladys is staying on a blow-up mattress. The door closes, giving Betty one final glimpse of a direct brown gaze sprinkled with laugh lines and facial tats.

Huffing out a sigh, Betty collapses into Jughead’s easy chair. Even after all those years of cleaning up after the woman, she _likes_ Gladys. Betty admires the way she’s fought to remain independent in the face of alcoholism and despair. It would be great if Jughead’s mom would like her back, but so far she's stiff-armed any advances of friendship.

A warm weight drapes itself over her neck. Jughead kisses her ear and slides onto his chair, squishing her into one corner. “You’re in my seat,” he accuses. “We may not live in Versailles, but I do ask that this naugahyde throne is reserved for… Hey, what’s wrong?”

Betty shakes her head. She’s not going to let Gladys make Christmas anything less than magical. “Nothing, just trying to remember what else I need to do.”

“We both already know you’ve checked your list – which is an actual Excel spreadsheet – at least fifty times.” He lifts her chin with one forefinger, forcing her to look at him. “Hmm?”

Impossible not to relent under the tsunami force of his eyes. “I just wish Gladys and I could be more friendly. She seems to think I represent the worst of Northside colonialism.”

“Hey.” Very gently he kisses her, one of those soft embraces that still has the power to take Betty’s breath away. “If it helps, she’s been prickly as a punked-out hedgehog to me as well. Probably one of her grifts went south, or maybe she’s just more pig-headed than usual.”

A loud thump interrupts their clandestine moment, and with a groan Jughead slides out from underneath her. “Guess I better go and see who’s torturing whom.”

“They’re probably just playing Floor is Lava!” Betty grins, her good humor restored. She hears Jughead stalk down the hall, obviously getting into Monster Dad Mode. Sure enough, a moment later the kids’ room erupts with gleefully horrified screams.

A blast of music from the table distracts her. Gladys has left her phone face-down under a pile of Christmas cards, and without thinking Betty picks it up. The lockscreen is Jughead with his arm around Jellys. Their faces are blotted out by a few rapid text bubbles from one of Gladys's junkyard orphans:

_You keep telling us things will be fine but the Ghoulies are on their way_

_They’ve got the keys to the barn and shit_

_They're here_

_Malachai says we’ve got 20 minutes to get out_

_G, where are you?_

Frowning, Betty shoves the phone into her pocket and goes to find Jughead.

#

“She lost the junkyard in a game of cards.” FP’s pronouncement is rattled by a long, hacking cough, and he blows his nose into an old-fashioned handkerchief with pink polka-dots before settling himself more comfortably in the cab of the truck.

“I have Kleenex in my purse…” Betty shakes her head. “Never mind. What can we do?”

“Why didn’t she tell anyone?” Jughead glares at the holiday decorations hanging over the Riverdale sign. THE TOWN WITH PEP is obscured by fat, simpering light-up angels that brandish faded bugles. “Why didn’t she just say she was in trouble so we could take care of it before Malachai rode in with his creepy eye-liner and skinny ass into Gladys’s junkyard?”

“Well, you know your mom. She has to be all independent and strong, even as she rides over a cliff.” FP slithers through a traffic light as it turns red and mutters apologies to Betty, but she’s not really listening.

_One day we’ll stay home all Christmas Eve,_ Betty thinks. _Jughead and I will go to bed on time and sleep the whole night through without careening all over town on some last-minute adventure. We’ll drink Bailey’s and watch It’s a Wonderful Life._

Even as she pictures it, Jughead smacks FP’s shoulder with the flat of one hand. “Dad, next left. Watch out for Ghoulies.” He turns to look at Betty in the backseat. “I don’t suppose I could talk you into staying in the truck while we take care of these morons?”

“You suppose correctly.” Betty pulls up the hood of her black sweatshirt to cover her hair and prepares to leap out. “Direct confrontation, or are we going in from the back?”

“ _Can_ we get in the back?” Jughead asks FP.

“Sorry, kid. That door is always locked with a ton of padlocks.”

“A ton of them, huh?” Betty produces her lockpick tools, an anniversary gift from Jughead, and waves them under her father-in-law’s nose. “Might take me a few minutes, then.”

#

The barn that Gladys uses as her junkshop is a bisected by a long hallway. Stalls on either side are marked with hand-crafted signs in green crayon: JUNK TO SELL, THINGS JELLY LIKES, SHIT I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH. Betty’s pretty sure Gladys made the signs.

A room at the far end is open, and light streams out onto the grease-dotted walkway. Voices emerge, dusted with loud laughter and hiccups. “They're drunk,” FP gloats. “This’ll be a walk in the park.” He spoils his attempt at Dependable Parent mode by sneezing.

Shushing his dad, Jughead picks up a rusty muffler and edges to the door. Betty wonders if he’s going to use it to bash Malachai over the head. With a shrug, she concludes there are worse weapons, probably most of them stacked in the SHIT I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH room.

When the three of them peek in the door, they see Malachai and another anonymous Ghoulie sitting at a crate with cards in their hands. A bottle containing an inch of foul liquid sits on the floor beside them, and from the glitter in Mal’s eyes he’s drunk most of it.

FP doesn’t mince words. He strides into the room and wraps one callused hand around Mal’s throat. “Get the fuck out of my wife’s business,” he demands.

“Hey! Hey hey hey!” The other Ghoulie, who has the name Zombo painted on the back of his jacket, jumps off the bucket he’s been using as a seat. “Not cool, this is Christmas Eve for fuck’s sake.”

“There’s a lady present.” Weariness rattles Jughead’s voice. “Maybe you could at least be more inventive with your curses.”

“Throw a Blast or a Bugger in there instead of just lobbing F bombs,” Betty agrees. “It’s getting tiresome.”

With a manic laugh, Mal twists out of FP’s grip and gestures to the room. “See this place? I won it from the owner fair and square. She got a little hyped on the fizzle rocks, you know? Agreed to a game just as quietly as a lamb.” His eyes dart like crafty minnows between them. “Besides, she’s not your wife. Not anymore.”

“But she’s my mom, and that’ll never change.” Casually, Jughead spins the muffler on its tailpipe. “You’ve had your fun, and now you can head out. Tell all your cannibal friends you took over the junkyard for a night, it’ll make a great story.”

With a high-pitched giggle, Zombo produces a switch-blade. “Not happening, it’s ours now man, we’re the owners now man, just fuck off man…”

Betty rotates her neck. “What did my husband tell you about the F bomb? But I tell you what. Since it’s nearly Christmas, I’ll play you for the junkyard.”

Zombo emits a long whistle, but Mal silences him with a finger-snap. “You’re the chick who outwitted the sheriff. No deal.” His eyes slide sideways towards FP. “We’ll play for the yard, but only with Grampa here.”

FP protests that he’s beyond all that nonsense, but Betty nods her head. She’s been taught to signal cards by none other than FP himself.

"Sure about this?" Zombo stage-whispers. "That's the former Serpent King." FP chooses that moment to sneeze again, and he produces his garish handkerchief with a flourish. The blast of his nose-blow echoes through the barn, and Mal hoots.

“Think we'll be okay.” Malachai indicates Betty and Jughead with his knife. “But we need stakes. You’re playing for the yard. What do we get?”

Betty frowns. What can they use as collateral? FP’s broken-down truck, his even more broken-down trailer?

“Our house,” Jughead states. “You can have the deed if you win.”

Fear and excitement pour down Betty’s spine, and she knows she has to fight with everything she’s got. “At least let’s have one drink,” she breathes, winking at Zombo. “And not that paint-thinner you boys are sucking down, either. Doesn’t Gladys keep any hooch around?”

Jughead’s expression tell her he won’t let her forget that she’s just used the word ‘hooch.’ “There was a bottle of brandy she kept with some medical supplies. In that little wall cupboard behind the rusted-out Studebaker.”

“Perfect!” Betty removes her coat, leans over Zombo to put it on the edge of his bucket, and flutters her lashes. “FP, are you going to deal?”

FP picks up the cards and drops half of them. With a muttered Darn and another mighty sneeze, he attempts to pick them up, but Mal pushes him aside and says he’ll be the dealer.

“I’ll get the ‘hooch’,” Jughead snarls at Betty. “You both seem busy.”

“Oh dear. He’s angry.” Fanning herself with one hand, Betty pulls at the collar of her sweater. “Warm in here, isn’t it?”

By the time Jughead returns with a flat bottle and several mason jars, Zombo is in festive spirits. Betty manages to sight his cards – two pair – and signals to FP. There’s no way to see what Mal’s holding.

“Fold.” FP throws down his hand. “Best out of three.”

“No way!” Mal flicks his knife, but Jughead quickly hands him another drink. “We never said anything about three games. One hand, that’s it. Slide over the deed.”

“We’ll include the house contents,” Betty blurts. “All the furniture, clothes, my jewelry – even the gifts under the tree.”

Mal subsides and deals another hand, Jughead hovering over his shoulder with the brandy. Zombo has nothing, and Betty nods at her father-in-law, who calls for a card. His hands are steady, but he licks his lips in a silent tell.

“Full house.” Mal throws down his card and waves the mason jar under Jughead’s nose. “Too bad, old man. I’m almost sorry to…”

“Four of a kind.” FP fans out his cards with prim precision. “Deal another hand.”

“I'll bet your luck is about to change,” Betty whispers in Zombo’s ear. “You’ve got the queen on your side.”

He grins and wraps an arm around her waist. It’s almost too easy, until Betty sees he’s been dealt a flush. The idiot chuckles, and Betty doesn’t even have to signal. She can tell FP’s already picked it up.

“Straight flush,” Mal hoots. “I’m looking forward to opening those gifts.”

“Maybe we’ll keep her as well.” Zombo's tattooed arm around Betty’s waist tightens, and across the makeshift table Jughead’s eyes bulge with fury.

“Take your damn hands off of her,” he chokes.”

“Stand down, both of you.” FP puts down a ten of spades, followed by a jack, queen, king and ace. “Royal flush. My, my, my. Isn’t that pretty?”

“What the fuck?” Zombo gets up and flips the crate, scattering cards everywhere. “No one gets a dynasty in our games! No one!”

“Rules were meant to be broken.” Casually FP picks up the deck, sorts it one-handed, and ruffles it with expert precision to hand to Malachai. “Both of you, get out. It’s late, and my kid wants to be home for Christmas.”

“Doesn’t count.” Mal takes the cards and waves them under FP’s chin. “These cards are marked. None of these games count.”

“Wait.” Fury makes Betty’s nose prickle. “You played my mother-in-law for her place of business with marked cards?”

“And your father-in-law did the same. The two games cancel each other out, and we keep the junkyard.” Mal punctuates the statement with one of his irritatingly high-pitched laughs.

“I thought you might say that.” Jughead pulls out his phone, stabs the screen, and flings one arm at the entrance. “Behold – I brought back-up.”

Betty spins to face the entrance. There, among the bunt trash barrels and heaps of filthy rags, Cheryl Blossom stands upright with her bow. She’s all in red, a bleeding figure of justice. “It’s over, fleshatarians,” she calls. “This arrow is pointed at your groin, and my archer senses tell me one direct hit would really tingle. Don’t move unless you’re heading for the exit. Then feel free.”

#

Jughead drops off FP after his dad insists he just wants to go home and sleep. “I don’t want to bother you,” he keeps saying. “Don’t want to get in the way.”

“It’s no bother!” Betty climbs out of the truck and clings to FP's elbow. “We’d love to have you over for Christmas. Please, FP, won’t you reconsider and join us? There’s enough food to feed an army. You’d really be doing us a favor. And the kids would go ballistic with joy.”

“Yeah, well.” The former king of the Serpents blows her an absent kiss and trudges to the worn steps of his old trailer. “Merry ho ho and all that.”

“Think he’ll come over?”

Jughead grimaces. “There is nothing that man is afraid of in this world, other than his ex-wife.”

“Huh.”

The car purrs to life, and Jughead backs it out of Sunnyside. “Betts,” he begins. “You know, this year has been…”

“… a tough one and you haven’t got a present for me. I know.” She knocks her shoulder against his. “That’s what you said last year, and then you presented me with a honeymoon. It was the best trip of my life. Remember the walks in the woods? And the hot tub under the stars? And what we did with the velvet ropes I brought?”

“I sure do.” Jughead threads his fingers through hers. “Thing is, I actually _do_ have a gift for you this year. That job I went for last week? They called me yesterday and offered me the position. Won’t be a lot of money at the start,” he adds, “but it’s a really great chance for advancement.”

“Juggie!” Betty strains to kiss his cheek. “Wow, that’s amazing! You’re amazing.”

“Thing is, I, uh.”

She feels a bubble of laughter swell within her. “What did you do?”

“Kind of paid for Jelly’s classes in the spring. She didn’t think she could afford another semester of college, but I snuck into her laptop and signed her up.”

“She doesn’t know?” Winded, Betty collapses against her seat. “Wow, just wait until she finds out. Gosh.”

Her husband hums with contentment. “As for you, missy, just don’t flirt with any more Ghoulies.”

"No more Zombo?" Betty pretends to wipe away a tear, and he laughs. Outside, the pines toss in the winter wind. A sudden spatter of snow hits the windshield, and Betty pictures the kids’ excitement if it continues – an actual white Christmas.

Tomorrow, Gladys will find out she hasn’t lost the junkyard, after all. One way or another, Betty will get FP over to their house. She’ll sneak a few toys into a box for Gladys so the woman can give them out to her grandchildren.

And Jelly – Jellybean will get the biggest surprise of all.

Sleep steals over her, but Betty shakes it off. “I know I say this every year, but this is going to be the best Christmas ever.”

"Yeah," Jughead whispers. "I can't wait."


End file.
